


This and This and This

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkwardness, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Fondling, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Slender calves stretch to the elegant tendons of his heels, feet scarcely touching the ground. He keeps pace alongside his friend, he laughs as if he’s at a saunter, until he’s off again until he reaches the start. Grasping his foot from over his shoulders, he stretches.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Patroclus’ cheeks burn, scalded by envy.</i>
</p><p>No one's first day of school is ever easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Our first foray into writing for The Song of Achilles - thank you for the opportunity!
> 
> Beta'd by our beloved [Noodle](http://noodletheelephant.tumblr.com/).

First days are hardly grounds to judge new experiences by. First days are more often than not terrible. First days imply new people and new surroundings, new things to think of and routines to learn. First days, Patroclus finds, come and they go. And second days are usually a better determiner.

If Patroclus is honest, the first day at his new high school is not exactly a first day. It is only a first day for him. That already makes it several times harder than it would have been had he started with everyone else. Already, people know where their classes are, they know the people to sit with, they know the places to avoid. And Patroclus doesn’t. He filters through the masses against the current and seeks for his locker.

His locker, at least, is clean and seemingly undamaged, yet the space around is overcrowded by a mass of students whose numbers exceed the lockers in this section. Patroclus shoulders through, apologies abounding and voice almost too soft to hear, and reaches finally to open it. The swarm of students watch him but nothing more - obviously it’s not a welcoming party - and Patroclus is all too happy to dump his things and get right back out of the eye of the storm.

Patroclus’ reputation precedes him, like the whisper of water against the shore that preludes the wave. Gazes turn away though he doesn’t catch them watching, fragments of words that can be pieced together well enough to know their shape. For so many students, he is alone, singularly alone.

And if he’s honest, he’s also lost.

“Excuse me -”

The cool-eyed girl to whom he offered his schedule passes by, lips parting in alarm.

“I’m trying to find -”

With a snort, a broad-shouldered boy with ginger hair continues on.

“I don’t know where -”

His schedule, now crumpled in his fist, is plucked away, and he spins to regard the curly-haired girl who grasps it now in contemplation. “You want the sciences wing,” she tells him.

Patroclus blinks, teeth against his top lip before he lets out a breath and nods.

“Thank you.”

“That part of the school is a nightmare to navigate. They started renovating it, then the school cut funding and built a sport stadium instead. Of course. So now it’s a labyrinth of old and new and ridiculous.” She hands the paper back and works her hand through her dark hair. Patroclus just blinks again, taking in the quick words and amused tone. Strangely, nothing at all malicious in it, perhaps a test of some kind he doesn’t know how to prepare for.

People are terrible to understand, Patroclus prefers books for a reason. They have patience to allow you to make sense of them on your own.

“Thanks,” he breathes.

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth and lets it slide slowly free again as her brows furrow. “You have no idea where it is, do you.”

“No,” he sighs, and her laugh sparks bright enough to startle him.

“Come on,” she says. “My next one’s that way, too.”

Patroclus keeps pace beside her as she lifts her chin and strides into the crowd. Hands set to the strap of her overstuffed messenger bag, she takes him in with a glance and doesn’t seem to find him wanting, or at least not needful of the same suspicions already catching like brushfire among the kindling of bored students. “What’s your name?”

“Patroclus,” he answers.

“Briseis,” she responds, before leaning close to him and dropping her voice. “Mind the jocks. Sick joke putting the sciences next to the changing rooms.”

They circle around the same band of boys as before, who pay them no notice, and she pivots into a much quieter hallway with a grin, white teeth broad and bright against dark skin, a little gap between the two at front. Patroclus finds himself responding in kind.

“Third door on the right,” she tells him. 

“Thank you.”

“You don’t say much do you?” Briseis laughs, and Patroclus finds his cheeks warming with the words. There it goes, the first possible acquaintance that he had not scared off by newness alone.

“I don’t often have much to say.”

“Wish more people thought that way,” she sighs, shrugging her bag higher up her shoulder and giving him a smile again. “Too many people have nothing to say and spend a long time making sure they’re loudly heard saying nothing.” She tilts her head towards the door and flips a curl out of her eyes. “Have a good class, Patroclus.”

He opens his mouth to say thank you - again - and changes his mind, just nodding instead.

Within, the class is rather empty, perhaps other are having similar troubles finding the room or perhaps due to this being already most of the way through the term, the class has culled out the students who stood no chance in it from the beginning. Patroclus makes his way to a stool by the window, far enough out of the way should anyone choose to see him at all, and in a corner, not taking up space that others could sit in.

He’s glad that he kept up with his studies during his suspension. Already the class is advanced beyond where he was before, but not so far ahead that the terms and theories are unfamiliar to him. Had he let himself slip, had he accepted it all as pointless as it felt, he’d be drowning in a deluge of organic chemistry. As it is, he leaves the class gasping for air, head scarcely above water.

It’s still early in the day as the bell rings, and he checks his schedule again.

Only due to the proximity of other students does Patroclus manage to keep his groan in check.

At least he’s close.

Skidding his sneakers, laces loose, against the floor he heads to the changing rooms. Around him voices echo raucous and bright off the tile floors and metal lockers, lit by the sun rising toward midday through small windows above. It’s immediately apparent who is there for the all-but-remedial phys ed and who’s there for more. Along the newest lockers, tall boys stand lean, long legs and narrow waists, in various stages of undress. Hairless chests become taut stomachs, become muscular thighs beneath royal blue satin running shorts.

Patroclus wishes he had tripped on his laces coming over. Despite how he can normally get by in the shadows of high school, gym is a place where no shadows exist. Gym is a place you get cast into a spotlight of teasing and cruelty by those who happened to be born slimmer, lither, faster than you.

Patroclus takes his clothes to change in the stall, closing and locking the door behind him. He doesn’t need more hell than he’ll already get in a few moments when they all get let loose into the gymnasium and the preening beauties that know their skill will find the weakest to pick on.

He misses suspension. At least there he didn’t have to keep up with sport.

By the time he leaves, there are very few people left in the locker room, and he finds a place to hang his bag before trudging out the door and into the gym.

“Outside!”

The teacher’s voice rings loud and a few groans lift to meet it. Patroclus is careful to keep his quiet, but he shares the sentiment. What they’ll be made to do - conditioning, football, jogging - hardly matters so much as they’re being made to do it outside of the sanctity of air conditioning, and in front of the long-legged boys who cross their way, laughing, towards the track. Its ochre path reflects heat like water, silvery.

Maybe he can fake sick. Blame the sun, blame the heat. Blame the stress of a first day back after too long away from the rigors of the academic environment. The list grows longer as they’re instructed to take up javelins and shot puts and carry them towards the field. They can’t use the track since the team is practicing, but they can damn well work on field events.

“Don’t have to be able to run quick to throw a shotput,” their teacher confides, patting Patroclus’ back with enough enthusiasm that he drops the heavy ball altogether.

He supposes it could be worse. They could be made to train with the team.

The boys lined up behind Patroclus to take their turn with the shotput seem to care about the sport as much as he does, thankfully, and no one is hounding him to hurry, to try harder. Patroclus tosses the thing as best he can, not even reaching the first marker line, and takes his place at the back of the line before the teacher can notice and move to _help him practice his skill_.

The sun beats down and will only get worse. At least, Patroclus assumes, the showers here work well enough to not have the school reeking of sweat for the rest of the day. He has a free period after this, he can check his schedule and attempt to find his classes again without bothering any poor passersby.

He directs his eyes to the track as a few of the boys rush past on it, the one in the lead - a beautiful boy with sepia skin and unusually golden hair - raises his arms as though he won a race and effortlessly falls into a cartwheel before turning to the other boys he raced with. Patroclus feels his heart beat a little faster. That is the kind of boy who rarely has vision good enough for the shadows, that is the kind of boy you do not want to be spotlighted by at all.

Patroclus could watch him running for as long as his energy lasted, but he would give anything to never come face to face with the god of the racetrack.

Even jogging backwards, he puts to pace the other boys on the team, but it isn’t with a maliciousness - to the contrary, his laugh shines as rich as his curls. Only when one of his teammates finds a second wind does he turn to keep alongside him again. He makes it look easy.

He makes it look _effortless_.

Slender calves stretch to the elegant tendons of his heels, feet scarcely touching the ground. He keeps pace alongside his friend, he laughs as if he’s at a saunter, until he’s off again until he reaches the start. Grasping his foot from over his shoulders, he stretches.

Patroclus’ cheeks burn, scalded by envy.

He turns back to the shot put, and fueled purely by frustration, he makes it nearly to the second marker. The teacher claps, Patroclus’ eyes widen.

He looks.

The bright-haired, brown-skinned boy meets his gaze with even curiosity, like a grazing deer uplifting its head towards a distant sound.

Patroclus shoves his hands down against the hem of his shorts and tugs those down as he makes his way to the back of the line again, head ducked and cheeks scarlet. He didn’t need to do that. He doesn’t need to do it again. Eventually, the period will be over. Eventually he will be safe in his shadows again.

Patroclus watches the beautiful runner take to the track again and exhales. He was but a blip on the radar of someone who runs in the sun. He’s glad it passed before he could get used to it.

He takes two more turns with the shot put before they’re forced to move to javelin, and he immediately brings a hand to his wrist to rub it, faking pain, hunching his shoulders and grimacing as though he aches all over. He knows the teacher sees right through it. He knows he makes a rather pathetic picture trying so hard to not do this, as he will have to regardless. The school is known for its athletics, his father had made sure of it.

Of course.

“Ten minutes!” The head coach’s voice seems to ring and carry with no effort at all, and the boys on the track wave to show they heard before continuing with their practice. High knees now, for one lap, then longer strides, then heels to thighs. Patroclus could think of no worse horror than track training.

He’s running backwards again, turned to face the other boys and chat. Their faces are scarlet with the exertion, whereas beneath his red-brown cheeks he merely rosies to a warm pink. It’s unfair. It’s savagely unfair. He’s hardly broken a sweat, the sheen instead a bronzy glow -

“Come in!” calls the coach, and the boy stops. The other runners groan with relief, bent doubled over, hands on their knees. But with a crooked grin, wide over white teeth, the boy trots nearer to the coach, within earshot of the other class. The _lesser_ class. Patroclus squints as the team comes near.

“If we’ve got any hope of taking this meet -” the coach begins, but with a loud laugh, claps the boy’s shoulder. “Who the hell am I kidding? Of course we do. But we need accountability. We need to hold each other up to the expectations set by you being on this team.”

“Not just waiting around for me to do it,” teases the boy, to sputters and laughter.

He grins, and yet there is still no malice there, there is pride but not at the expense of others. It’s fascinating, and the more Patroclus thinks about it the more he realizes he cannot think about it, shouldn’t, anymore. He has no chance of making the meet, he doesn’t want to. He is here because his schedule put him here. If all goes well enough he will pass the class at a scrape and have his other grades hold him afloat.

He doesn’t need to think about the blonde before them all like a statue of a god.

It’s a little hard to do when amber eyes settle on him again, a lingering curiosity as tangible as fingers. Patroclus’ teacher - the assistant coach - asks them to pack up the gear, and he moves quickly to do so.

“So you’re going to pick a partner -”

Groans from the track team, as Patroclus seeks out the javelins dumped nearby to fit them back into their bag.

“- and this will be the person who pushes you, who you push, who keeps you accountable. Achilles,” the coach says, and Patroclus drops the javelins with a clatter.

He knows his name, and he’s never heard it before. Like a piano could never make the music of a violin, like a rose could never smell like lavender, never could that boy be called anything but -

“Achilles,” his coach says again, as the boy blinks towards him. “Choose first.”

A beat, a breath, and a grin.

“Him,” Achilles says. “I choose him.”

The javelins clatter to the ground again and the field rings with the silence after. Patroclus doesn’t want to turn around for fear of seeing who Achilles has chosen as his partner. He knows anyway, he knows and he needs the breath to say no, to excuse himself, hell, to even just be sick on the field so he immediately dispels the idea that he would be anything but a good partner in this.

He turns and shakes his head.

“I’m -”

“He’s not even on the team,” one of the boys near Achilles says, laughing and shoving Achilles when his friends shove against him.

“He doesn’t have to be,” Achilles shrugs. “We were asked to choose a partner, not a track buddy. I choose him.”

Patroclus just shakes his head again and brings a hand to his hair to tug it from his face, back over his eyes, behind his ear - anything to divert attention from himself. All it does is keep attention on him more acutely.

“Okay, yeah,” he finally manages. “Sure.”

The track coach narrows his eyes a little, looking between the two, especially at Achilles. Guileless eyes blink wide in response, as the coach asks, “What name should I put down, then?”

A challenge. Achilles squints again. He glances to Patroclus, a dreadful sort of amusement in his wide smile even as Patroclus’ belly flips inward on itself. Without knowing why, without having any rational explanation for it, but acting on instinct alone, Patroclus sets his hand to his belly and taps it twice.

“Pat,” Achilles declares, lifting his chin. “Put down Pat, Coach Chiron.”

Patroclus blinks, lips parting, closing, he swallows and shrugs, nods, just closes his eyes and agrees. Pat is fine. Pat won’t be on the list much longer when Achilles realizes Pat can’t do anything but drop javelins. His strength isn’t in sports, it never has been. Nor in being social with people of the class of…

 _Him_.

“Pat, then,” the coach says, scribbling the name down and giving him a rueful look over the clipboard. “You have your work cut out for you. He’s stubborn as hell.”

Patroclus says nothing, eyeing Achilles as the beautiful boy stretches, pleased with himself and the murmuring commotion around him. Arms above his head, shirt riding up over his belly, Achilles preens, responding, “And?”

“Best shot we’ve got at beating Troy,” Coach Chiron admits, before waving a hand towards the beaming boy. “Go on, then. Get to class. I’ll see you out here after last period.”

“And Pat,” Achilles insists.

“And Pat.”

“I can’t.” The words are hardly heard by the coach who already moves to the next boy to give him leave to choose his partner. Patroclus swallows and looks at Achilles instead, shrugging and crossing his arms over his chest as the boy comes nearer and stands before him, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his running shorts.

“You can’t?”

“I have other activities.”

“There are no clubs on after school on Mondays,” Achilles points out, and Patroclus has a sudden urge to shove him.

“This isn’t at school.”

“What is it?”

“Not track,” Patroclus replies, feeling his cheeks flush bright before he swallows and lifts his eyes to meet the amber ones that look at him. “It’s -”

Achilles sucks his bottom lip, full and flush, and holds it between his teeth. His brows lift, but any answer Patroclus could hope to supply him with - which is to say, make up on the spot - withers before it blooms when Achilles studies him from so close. He lets his eyes drift over warm copper skin, the dark flecks of freckles scattered beneath his eyes. Attention seeking like fingers, he runs his gaze over Patroclus’ hair, as richly black as Achilles’ is spun gold.

“Doesn’t sound very important if you can’t remember it,” Achilles says.

Patroclus’ breath leaves him all at once. The bell rings for the end of period, and he lifts a hand, mute still, and lets it drop again. Bending to quickly gather the javelins, he doesn’t bother to stuff them in the bag, carrying them against his chest instead.

“Come on,” Achilles laughs, settling into easy stride beside him. “Don’t be angry with me. You’re not, are you? You shouldn’t be. We’ll have fun. You’re new, aren’t you? Where did you come from?”

So many questions, all at once. Patroclus finds himself laughing because, in truth, what else can he do? Achilles' confidence is contagious, and Patroclus can do little more than shrug the javelins closer to his chest and attempt a reply.

"Baffled."

"Baffled?"

"I'm not angry," Patroclus clarifies. "I'm baffled. Why you chose me when I'm obviously far from an athlete."

"Because you don’t want pushing and I don't need it," Achilles replies with a grin, turning to walk in step but backwards as they make their way back to the gym for Patroclus to drop off the javelins. "You won't be in the meet because you don't want to be. I'll win the meet regardless of who my companion is in getting there. And I'd rather take the time to get to know someone new."

"Than?"

"Do you always talk so much?" Achilles laughs, and Patroclus feels his cheeks heat again as his lips turn in a smile.

"Do you always ask so many questions?"

With the same keen awareness as before, Achilles’ gaze sharpens and his grin widens. “Does it bother you that I do?”

“Would you care if it did?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Are you this way with everyone?”

Achilles stops, as Patroclus piques a brow. Smooth, slender arms spread into the doorway as Achilles leans a little closer, animated as a reed in the wind, ceaseless in his movements.

“No.”

Patroclus feels his cheeks burn hot beneath the close attention, held breathless for an instant before he ducks beneath Achilles’ arm to set the javelins messily back in place. At least there’s that, an early victory before Achilles shows him up at every turn. A friend, perhaps - _maybe_ \- at least until rumor catches up to them both. He gathers his clothes as Achilles watches rapt, and as he makes his way to shower to wash and change, his embarrassment darkens.

He can’t change in front of him, he won’t. Especially not when Achilles peels off his sleeveless shirt without a thought, hairless chest shining sleek with a sheen of sweat.

He can’t look, he won’t. Especially when the other boys’ voices call to Achilles as they return from the track, approaching in a wave of youthful exuberance

Neither does he want to go. And neither does Achilles look away from him.

“Patroclus,” he says. “My name is Patroclus.”

“Not Pat,” Achilles answers, eyes very wide then, and very grave. “Patroclus. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

The word is sweet as spun sugar when he speaks it, but Patroclus shakes his head. "It's okay, it doesn't matter -"

"It's your name."

"Your guess was very good. Good enough. For the list, I mean."

"It was a good clue," Achilles counters, but he still looks strangely concerned, almost comically so, if Patroclus couldn't see just how genuine he was being. "I'll ask coach to change it."

"Don't worry, it's -" More voices, closer, and Patroclus clutches his clothes and bag. "It's fine, Achilles, honestly."

A blink, a softness in the other boy’s gaze, and Patroclus could melt in it, like butter in the sun. He is radiant, damn him.

"Say my name again," Achilles asks him, and Patroclus opens his mouth to deny him, perhaps to obey without knowing why, but other voices call his name loud enough already, three boys in the changing room now, besides them, and Patroclus just turns and locks himself in a shower stall before he blushes so dark he glows with it.

He lingers in quiet, stuffing his clothes out of the way and switching the shower on belatedly, to give some rationale as to why he’s hiding. He listens, and among the wave of voices that break against him in boyish calamity, he notes that Achilles is quiet. Patroclus grins, suddenly, biting into his lip, and he rests his head against the shower wall.

Eventually Achilles joins into the chaos, laughing and teasing, still strangely quiet but responsive. Patroclus washes himself down from the sweat brought to his skin more by the golden-haired, russet-skinned boy than by any sort of athletics. He washes away too his own sudden smile, letting it slip free.

Why would Achilles do such a thing? It seems like a prank, a cruel joke, but not at any moment in him did Patroclus see cruelty. He pushes back when the other boys do but not with any savagery. He doesn’t need it. Achilles knows his own worth, writ over every striation of lean muscle and skill, caught in the dimples that form when he smiles.

Then why this?

Why Patroclus?

He shuts the shower off and towels down, tugging on his y-fronts and gathering up his other things to clear away from the steam. He just won’t go. It’s that easy. There are plenty of exits from the sprawling school that don’t involve passing by the track, and it’s not as though he’s being held to this by anyone but -

“Achilles,” he gasps, nearly dropping his things when he sees the boy still sitting on the bench beside the lockers, washed and dressed and waiting. His curls drip dark spots onto his shirt, a plain white thing that hangs well-worn and loose across one shoulder. “Why are you still here?”

“I wanted to wait for you,” he reasons.

Patroclus blinks at him, entirely taken aback, clothes still somehow miraculously clutched to his body keeping him at least a little covered. His dignity all but gone in front of this boy, he just stands dumbfounded, before something shifts him to move and he drops his things to the nearest bench that isn’t Achilles’ and begins to dress.

“You didn’t have to -”

“I didn’t. I wanted to,” Achilles reminds him with a smile, hands curled against the bench. He rests his cheek against his shoulder and watches the boy next to him struggle to get his legs, shower-clumsy, into his pants. Patroclus doesn’t feel much better when his pants are buttoned and zipped. He feels undressed by Achilles’ eyes in a way that is much more flattering than it is repulsive.

It’s not at all repulsive.

It feels remarkably good to be looked at, for a change.

He knows he’s blushing as he continues to dress.

“You’ll be late for class.”

“So will you.”

“I have a fr-” Patroclus looks up and then looks away. Now regardless of anything else, Achilles will know that. Whatever time Patroclus had wanted to spend curled up alone in the library will be gone, to instead… he doesn’t even know. Run more, maybe. “I have an easy Monday,” he amends.

Achilles’ grin says enough, but it’s hardly helped when he adds, “I wish I did.”

He stands as Patroclus takes up his bag, hoisting his own and snaring his letter jacket beneath his arm. When he averts his eyes, Patroclus misses it, but the stolen glances back betray Achilles’ motive to only look away when he feels the younger boy’s discomfort. They move in tandem steps towards the door, matched strides made rhythmic but for the discordant drip of Achilles’ still-wet hair against the floor behind.

His body is leonine, long and powerful. Beside Patroclus, Achilles is an overwhelming presence, the echoes of his performance on the field still playing behind Patroclus’ eyes. There is a burst of laughter from outside the door, and Patroclus stops.

“You’re going to be late,” he says again.

“Probably.”

“You’ll get in trouble,” Patroclus insists, shaking his head. “You’ll get _me_ in trouble. I don’t -” Another joke scatters boys’ voices into peals of amusement beyond the door. “If this is a prank, it isn’t funny. Nor is it challenging. Pulling one over on the new boy? You can do better.”

Achilles’ lips part, but before he can say anything else lovely or charming or unfairly _perfect_ , Patroclus turns and goes.

\---

It makes immediate sense, after a rather stressful free period spent not only finding the library but looking over his shoulder the entire time just in case someone had followed to laugh at him about what happened in gym, why Patroclus’ locker had been so crowded that morning.

Because it wasn’t his locker that was crowded.

Achilles closes his own carefully, book under one arm, and gives Patroclus an apologetic look when he tries to get to his own to pry it open.

It’s no longer a prank, Patroclus thinks, this is a cosmic joke. He isn’t lucky, he has never been lucky, so this can be nothing but ill-intended surely. He finds that he can’t not smile at Achilles though, as he leans against his locker and waits, again, for Patroclus to gather his things for his next class. When Patroclus sets off, so does Achilles, and with quiet sighs from the girls and displeased murmurs from the boys, the crowd filters into the corridor proper.

They walk, and Achilles follows, for a change, saying nothing and smiling softly every time Patroclus looks at him. Outside in the quad he finally gives up, with a deep sigh and furrowed brow.

“I don’t know where my next class is,” Patroclus admits.

Achilles offers out his hand, and after a moment wherein Patroclus nearly sets his hand against it in reflexive response, he hands Achilles his schedule instead.

“Of course you don’t,” Achilles snorts. “It’s ridiculous to expect that you would. This way,” he says, setting off as Patroclus hurries to catch up. “I should talk to the administrators -”

“Why?”

“Because it’s unfair.”

“I can find them, honestly -”

“I know that,” Achilles says, eyes wide. “I don’t doubt that at all. But why put you the through the ringer like that? Here,” he says, taking a turn. “They should at least give you a map.”

Achilles stops, suddenly, and Patroclus turns a slow circle. There are no classroom doors here, and when he comes face to face with Achilles again, the older boy grins.

“I’ll be your map.”

“You have class!”

“Easily excused in favor of helping someone new.”

Patroclus blinks at him before throwing his arms out in a shrug, helpless and amused all at once. He laughs, brings a hand to his face. So this is what it must be like, he thinks, to be popular and revered. The ability to skip class without repercussion, doting fans and friends galore, the freedom to do anything at all, knowing no one will be disappointed.

Patroclus takes a breath and looks up again, schooling his expression into something softer.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “About… before. When I - it wasn’t fair.”

Achilles gestures the apology away, just a curve of his wrist and a fanning of fingers and all is forgiven, easily and without effort. He leans closer, then, just a little, a scheming sort of glint in his eyes. “You know what you could do to make up for it, however entirely unnecessary that is,” he murmurs, conspiratorial.

Patroclus closes his eyes. It does nothing to alleviate the vertigo that unsettles the ground beneath his feet, nor the movement of the fine curls of hair beside his ear when Achilles whispers.

“Come to the track with me while I practice today.”

With a curt laugh, Patroclus blinks wide, meeting dark brown eyes draped with garlands of gold curls. “And?”

“No and,” Achilles insists, handing back Patroclus’ schedule and lifting his palms outward. “I’d like the company. Someone to talk to -”

“When you’re supposed to be running.”

“I can do more than one thing at a time,” Achilles says, nose wrinkling.

“I can’t run as fast as you to keep up,” Patroclus reminds him, and Achilles smiles wider. He offers no solution, for the moment, to this rather pertinent dilemma, and instead directs them on, down a few worn pathways and past standalone prefab classrooms. To his surprise, Patroclus is not the last to arrive to his class, students milling around every which way. He looks at Achilles.

“You won’t go to class?”

“I’ll go and get a note not to,” he says, shrugging and running a hand through his hair as it dries curly and wild. “And meet you here after, if you like.”

To Patroclus’ personal shame, he does like. He likes a lot. And he’s fairly sure the other boy knows.

“You don’t have to,” Patroclus tells him again, and with a grin, Achilles steps back.

“Out here in an hour, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Stretching,” Achilles says, relishing the word, and Patroclus snorts softly, looking around them before moving to gracefully fold his legs and sink to the track beside Achilles._
> 
> _“I wouldn’t be able to hold that for more than a few seconds,” he comments, as Achilles lowers himself and lets his legs pull long again._
> 
> _“I could hold you,” Achilles offers. “For more than a few seconds.” Patroclus’ lips part, cheeks reddening copper heat beneath his eyes. “For the stretch, I mean. Do you want to?”_

Achilles doesn’t regret his choice to accompany Patroclus to his classes. Not for an instant. It’s made easier when he explains to an administrator that he’s helping a new student get settled, but he doesn’t push his luck by skipping class entirely. He thinks about it though, watching Patroclus glance back at him through the doorway of his last class.

He thinks about him all through his final period math.

He thinks about him as he yawns through a quiz.

And on the way through the halls to the locker room.

And when he changes to a fresh pair of track shorts.

And especially when he decides to go without a shirt for his practice, sun pouring ripples of heat against his dark skin as the clouds pass by it.

The track bounces beneath his sneakers as he steps onto it and stretches. Legs forward, backward, heel to spine, knee to chest, feet apart, feet together. Idle motions, necessary he supposes, but more habit than anything. Every exhale, Achilles allows his gaze to drift toward the gym. Every inhale, his heart trips clumsy, a little faster each time, like falling down stairs.

Maybe he was too forward. Maybe he was being cruel and he didn’t realize it. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all and then at least Patroclus wouldn’t avoid him, and he could look at him a little. Just a little, just enough for his stomach to twist as he lost himself in moonless midnight eyes and the freckles dotted beneath. Achilles thinks of them even now and he smiles.

He wants to count them. All of them. Find constellations in them and mark them with his fingertip.

And maybe his lips.

And then -

Achilles drops back to sit on the track and stretch with a renewed ferocity. He can’t very well do any of that if he’s scared Patroclus off. Why had he been so forward? He hadn’t been denied, exactly, not directly, and maybe that’s where it came from. Nobody’s ever denied him much of anything that he can recall.

Given him things he doesn’t want, yes.

Achilles decides not to think of that now.

He lays on his back and lifts his legs straight into the air, idling now, he knows, when he should be running. What’s the point of that, either? It’s impossible that Hector would ever outpace him, and there’s no glory in breaking records if there’s no one there to see it, anyway.

Achilles sets toe to heel and laboriously works off one shoe, and then the other.

Toes set to the track, one sock higher up his leg than the other, Achilles lifts his hips and balances on shoulders and toes alone, hands resting at his sides as he feels the muscles pull and hold.

Maybe he can make it up to him? Find a map for him so he doesn’t follow Patroclus around unwanted like a stray puppy, choose another partner for gym and just… watch him. No. No, he has to fix this. He has to find a way to be friends with him, to talk with him, to do anything, really. Anything would be good.

“Is this a new technique?”

The voice is quiet, and Achilles squints up from his position to see a boy standing nearby. He grins, lifts a hand to shield his eyes and blinks as Patroclus comes into focus.

“Stretching,” Achilles says, relishing the word, and Patroclus snorts softly, looking around them before moving to gracefully fold his legs and sink to the track beside Achilles.

“I wouldn’t be able to hold that for more than a few seconds,” he comments, as Achilles lowers himself and lets his legs pull long again.

“I could hold you,” Achilles offers. “For more than a few seconds.” Patroclus’ lips part, cheeks reddening copper heat beneath his eyes. “For the stretch, I mean. Do you want to?”

Another snort, but this time it’s joined by a grin. Achilles watches, delighted in that moment to discover that Patroclus’ teeth are a little big for his mouth and in that, entirely perfect. When Patroclus shakes his head, dubious, Achilles pulls himself upward to sit, pleased.

Maybe he’s already fixed it.

Achilles rolls down his socks, inch by inch, before wadding them into his shoes. In little more than snug blue velour and silk running shorts, he settles back to his bottom and steals a glance at Patroclus, to see if he’s stealing a glimpse in turn. Achilles could swear that he was, for a moment, just a peek.

He could squirm for it.

“Where did you come from before this, Patroclus?” Achilles asks, letting his legs lay wide against the sun-warm track, leaning back on his hands.

Patroclus remains with his legs crossed and his arms holding a book set in the nest of them, as covered as Achilles is not. He shrugs, turns to look around them again.

“Another school,” he offers, and Achilles presses his lips together in a pursed little smile. He watches Patroclus fidget with the frayed lace on one of his sneakers before he lets it go and looks up to meet Achilles’ eyes, then just away again. “What about you?”

“From the same place as you,” he grins, as Patroclus lifts a brow. “Another school. Not for high school, though, I’ve only been here,” he says, bringing his heels together to lean across his butterfly-winged legs. “My mother insisted on it. ‘The best school for the best of all the -’ on and on and on. Doesn’t matter to me, really. Matters a lot to her.”

Achilles sighs, unfurling and pushing to stand, pulling his slender body straight and strong. He sets his hands to the back of his head and twists one way, then the other, watching Patroclus patiently beside him. He wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to guard himself behind books, nor half-truths. He wants to tell him suddenly, wildly, that there isn’t anything he could do to make himself unlikeable to Achilles, or make him regret choosing him.

“Will you run with me?” Achilles asks instead, and Patroclus laughs, dire.

“I’m not in gym clothes.”

Indeed, he’s not. A well-loved sweater, threadbare around the wrists, overlaying a button-down shirt. Sleeves up to his elbows, ordinary indigo jeans beneath. Achilles bites his bottom lip, barely suppressing a grin that breaks free into a laugh.

“You could come anyway.”

“Or I could not. It’s not my training, it’s yours.”

“You’re going to make me run laps in order to be able to talk with you? Every time I pass, a little more,” Achilles complains, delighted.

Patroclus looks up at him, blinks wide, and then settles into a more comfortable posture and announces, “Yes.”

A ribbon of pleasure slips over Achilles’ skin, like tickling fingers down his spine, like cool breath against sweat. It feels marvellous, to be agreed with and at once denied this way. No one has ever done it before and it is so wonderfully novel.

“For each lap, a question,” Patroclus says, glancing up from where he sits, head ducked and legs crossed. “If you insist on asking them so frequently.”

“For each lap an answer,” Achilles adds, grinning when Patroclus snorts again and shakes his head, then nods it. “A question is but a question without an answer, and I want to know you.”

Patroclus swallows softly, parts his lips with his tongue, and with a little huffed laugh, gestures that Achilles should start his lap. He takes a step backwards, and another, watching Patroclus there all glossy-haired and bright-eyed, until he laughs and waves his hand, “Facing the right way!”

With a laugh, Achilles turns and goes. Bare feet strike only softly against the rubber track beneath, each press of toes pushing him forward as the surface rebounds against his feet. He is aware of his muscles, the stretch and pull of them, but they do not ache or burn. Faster, he pushes himself, higher above the track, as if he’s barely touching it at all. As if he’s flying, effortless, heart as uplifted as his body as he sees Patroclus watching him.

When he circles again, Achilles slows his stride - but does not stop it - and tosses his hair back from his face. “If you don’t like sports,” he asks, “what do you like?”

“Books,” Patroclus tells him, shrugging a little as he shifts his sleeves higher up his arms as the sun warms him where he sits. “People-watching. Quiet.”

“Like a little hermit,” Achilles laughs, but it is not malicious, a gentle childish teasing to get Patroclus to smile, to get that blush just beneath his eyes to light up his freckles against his dark skin.

“Like a philosopher,” Patroclus amends, and laughs as Achilles runs backwards a few steps past him and then turns to take another lap.

Achilles closes his eyes to the sun, ripening to gold in the late afternoon. The track he knows, he runs it in his sleep, opening his lungs to let them fill and move him faster. He notices this time that Patroclus’ book is open, but that it’s laid in the grass. He notices too that Patroclus isn’t reading it.

“You like philosophy?” Achilles asks as he approaches.

“Yes, and the sciences.”

“Which ones?”

“Biology, chemistry,” Patroclus lists. “Physics and - that’s two questions.”

“Do you like music?” Achilles calls out as he passes back, turning backwards to watch Patroclus as he leans forward a little, grinning.

Another lap, another answer. “I’ll listen to anything and decide then if I like it.”

Achilles smiles wider, and allowing for the fact that he asked three questions on one lap, he goes to run the next without asking anything more. Yet. He forces himself not to look at where Patroclus is sitting, not until the track curves and he can, and then he nearly trips over his own feet watching that boy untangle himself from his sweater, shirt riding up just a little and caught in the warm fabric.

Achilles closes his eyes and allows his heart to speed. He can pretend it’s because of the running, can pretend it’s because of the exertion and effort. When he opens his eyes again, Patroclus is deliberately folding the sweater up and setting it near his book before he shifts to lie against it.

“What are you doing?” Achilles asks him, laughing, and Patroclus just raises an eyebrow.

“Watching you train.”

A swath of russet skin peeks where his shirt’s come untucked, and it nearly undoes Achilles entirely. When he stumbles, just a step off-beat, Achilles laughs aloud. Never does he falter, never does he miss a stride. And there, just there, that singularly beautiful strip of warm bright skin has made him nearly fall.

Achilles cannot recall a moment so exciting as this.

“That counts as your question,” Patroclus tells him, and Achilles carries on around again.

He muses over a thousand questions to ask on his lap. Does Patroclus like him? Does Patroclus realize how much Achilles likes him? Wouldn’t he rather go sit someplace together and talk until night falls and the halogens burn marigold overhead?

_Can I kiss you?_

_Will you kiss me back if I do?_

Achilles is nearly winded by the time he arrives again, and it has nothing at all to do with his running.

“Why?” he asks, a breeze tousling Patroclus’ hair and whispering cool across Achilles’ sweat-damp skin.

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Why did you agree to this?”

And Patroclus doesn’t seem to know how to answer that either, lips parting just a little and eyes wide as he regards Achilles jogging almost on the spot waiting for him to reply. He will not wait another lap, he has to know now. He needs to.

“Because you gave me no reason to say no,” Patroclus ventures. It’s honest, it’s part of an answer, and it makes Achilles grin. No reason to say no, a tentative yes, then, with nothing else to go on. Already a good start, already a good place. He turns to run backwards a few steps and Patroclus ducks his head and shakes it again.

It delights Achilles to think that that is the affect he has on the boy, pleasure, nervous amusement, joy. As he turns to run properly, one more lap, Patroclus calls after him.

“Let me ask you one!”

Achilles turns, raises an eyebrow, gestures for Patroclus to speak before he speeds up too much to hear him.

“Why did you choose me?”

Achilles grins, bright and brief, and continues at a slightly paced jog as he begins to answer.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Then keep up!”

Patroclus curses softly, watches as Achilles gets a little further up the track before he scrambles up and follows him, far from graceful at running as Achilles is, but enough that he can at least keep pace at the near-walk Achilles stays at for him. With a frown, Patroclus speeds up, feels a blush cover his cheeks as Achilles smiles and moves to keep pace.

“What did you say?”

Achilles bites his lip and grins, his heart fluttering wild against his ribs, laugh building tickling in his throat until he lets it loose, effervescent. “I said,” he answers, “that there’s no one else who could have been a better choice. Not ever.”

“You didn’t even know my name,” Patroclus protests.

“I didn’t need to. I saw you and I knew.”

Patroclus stumbles over his laces and Achilles catches him quick, an arm around his waist. A startled sound escapes Patroclus a beat later, and softens to something gentler as Achilles lets his grip slide slowly free, fingers brushing that same bare skin, soft as silk, that he noted so attentively before. He blinks at Patroclus, gaze darting over his expression to read it, to memorize it, the fullness of his lips and their rosy undertone, the broad bridge of his nose, the depth of his eyes.

The quiet surprise and the confusion that tangles with it.

“Everything else about you I can learn,” Achilles says as they stand together on the track. “Your name, where you’re from. None of that matters as much as what I knew right away.”

Patroclus’ throat clicks. “Which was?”

“That I wanted you for my own,” he grins. “Just like this.”

Patroclus makes a little sound and coughs, choking on his own breath in surprise, hand up to cover his mouth and face flushing when he feels Achilles stroke his back so his breathing evens again. He’s smiling when Patroclus looks up at him again.

It is such a strangely endearing proclamation, like something a child would make regarding a new purchased pet, no malice, no cruelty, no expectation beyond their words being true. Patroclus wonders if Achilles has ever been denied anything, and at once a sad thought hits him that perhaps he may not have, but this could be the first time he has ever genuinely wanted something and imagined only that he would get it.

Patroclus finds that he doesn’t want to deny him, this earnest and sunny boy, despite the strangeness of his request. So he smiles, lets a shaky breath leave him and directs his eyes to the ground, where his dusty sneakers and Achilles’ bare feet rest side by side.

“You should finish your lap,” he whispers.

“And you?” Achilles asks, without reservation. In fact, the concept of reservation is foreign to him so entirely that he doesn’t even feel it distantly enough to consider. Patroclus draws a breath, a mild panic widens his eyes, and Achilles laughs. “You asked a few questions, too.”

Patroclus exhales hard. He nods. He shakes his head. He nods again. “Yes, I’ll -”

“Go wait for me,” Achilles tells him. He wonders, suddenly, if he could fly. If the wings beating ferocious inside his chest could be enough to lift him entirely from the ground. It’s enough, all of this, that Achilles is dizzy with possibility and certainty both.

“But you said -”

“Go,” laughs Achilles. “Let me run them for you.”

He lets Patroclus go only reluctantly, watches him stumble once over his laces back to where he had been sitting, and plonk himself back down again. Achilles thinks that he could run forever and never tire, if at the end of the race Patroclus was there to meet him.

He takes the rest of his lap, two more for Patroclus’ questions, and when he drops to sit beside Patroclus after, he lets his entire body go lax, arms splayed and chest heaving as he relaxes on the track.

Above them, the sun has sunk a little lower, a warm gold over the entire school, now, illuminating the teams training there, cheerleading and football, field hockey and rugby. Achilles turns to look at his friend, who sits near but not touching, looking at Achilles but not in the eyes. He is nervous and tired and wonderful, entirely wonderful. Achilles makes a small sound when Patroclus turns around but laughs when he turns back with a water bottle in his hand, and holds it out.

Achilles accepts it, their fingers brushing together as he does. The bottle is still cool, no longer cold, but it was not long ago. He brought this for him, Achilles knows, and he can hardly stop smiling enough to crack the top and drink.

“See,” he sighs, laying back flat across the grass. “You’re perfect.”

“It’s only a bottle of water.”

“ _Only_ ,” snorts Achilles, tipping another sip into his mouth and tilting his head to watch Patroclus. The sun brings shots of red through the pitch of his hair, not so much curled as cow-licked wild. He wants to smooth it flat. He wants to ruffle it again. He wants to push his fingers through and tug and -

“I should help you now,” Achilles decides, rolling to his stomach. He watches Patroclus across his shoulder and stretches to steal his book away. “That only seems fair.”

Patroclus doesn’t attempt to snare his book back, it isn’t taken to bully, Achilles holds it carefully and keeps Patroclus’ page as he flips through it himself. He is sweaty and golden, shorts stark against his bronzed skin, pads of his feet just lighter than the rest of him as Achilles crosses his ankles and rocks them up over his back.

“Help me with what?” Patroclus asks quietly.

“I don’t imagine you want to practice field events,” Achilles scoffs, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin. He looks back to the book at hand, water bottle safely tucked beneath his arm, and turns the pages slowly. “I can help you study.”

“Can you?”

“I could,” he shrugs. “It’s not what I’m best at but my grades are fair. Anyway, I’ve got the answers and you don’t.”

“I haven’t even finished my first day,” Patroclus reminds him, not unkindly. “I don’t know where to begin.”

Achilles, always keen to attack a challenge - and more eager still to seek an opening - glances back again. “We could tomorrow then. Or - whenever you need. Or like. I’m out here every day, before music lessons. I can quiz you when I run.”

Patroclus laughs, and that, too, is not unkind. Achilles is so strange to him, vibrant and enthusiastic as many boys are but he is also entirely trusting, seemingly content to believe whatever he has told himself is true. And he has told himself they are friends. Patroclus hardly wants to argue, he just can barely fathom that this is real.

“End of the week,” Patroclus offers. “Once I have something worthy of quizzing me on.” He watches Achilles’ face drop a little, eyes wide and feet pushed to rest on the ground once more. Patroclus can’t look at him without knowing his eyes will wander and he cannot have that.

“But you train every day, so I’ll be here every day. Catching up.” He smiles, tilts his head and reaches for the bottle back so he can have a drink too. “You play an instrument?” he asks.

“My dad wants me to be well-rounded,” he says, pushing against the grass to sit up again, cross-legged. His muscles twitch, all along his calves and thighs, a pleasant electricity that sparkles up like static to his stomach. “He has me take guitar lessons.”

Patroclus’ brows knit, just for an instant, and inside, Achilles feels a curious tension. Panic, or something very near it. He slides Patroclus’ book back to him, turned back to the page it was on before.

“Are you good?” Patroclus asks.

“You’ll have to tell me,” Achilles says. It’s a funny question, but Patroclus is funny. He isn’t sure he can remember ever being asked that, where it wasn’t assumed - rightly so - that he simply _is_ good at that and anything else. That too is a challenge, and it warms him as if the sun were spreading beneath his skin rather than across it.

Patroclus laughs, nods that he will, and takes his book back, folding the corner of the page to hold it and closing it up to put into his bag. He doesn’t want to get up, not yet, he doesn’t want to stand and go to the gym and through it, to his scooter and home to an empty kitchen and another note from his dad telling him to order dinner in.

He doesn’t want to and yet he pushes himself up anyway, dusting the backs of his thighs of grass and bending to get his bag.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” Patroclus sighs, offering a smile down to Achilles who still sits, curious and beautiful, at his feet.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“It seems unavoidable.”

Achilles feels his brow crease, his lips downturn just a little. Unfamiliar muscles tugged in unpleasant ways. He doesn’t care for it.

“Our lockers are right beside each other,” Patroclus reminds him, with a small, crooked smile. “And I have to bring you water again tomorrow, don’t I?”

“Yes,” agrees Achilles, a rush of breath all at once. He pushes himself to stand, fingers stretching at his sides as if to reach, curling closed again when he resists. “I’d be lost without it. And then we’d be in a very poor way, with both of us adrift.”

“You’re very strange,” Patroclus tells him suddenly, the words soft, entirely gentle, and his smile pulls the corners of his eyes up. He shrugs his bag higher up his shoulder and tilts his head. “I like it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s a compliment. It’s more than that, it’s _two_ compliments and Achilles’ heart thunders. Patroclus likes his strangeness. Patroclus maybe even likes _him_. Lightning twists in Achilles’ belly and pulls it so tight he can only laugh on a single breath. Sparks surge through his legs and he wants to run again, again and again, he could run the track the whole night through, he imagines, knowing that -

“Tomorrow,” Achilles agrees, forcing himself not to sound breathless from this unusual new exertion. “Get home safe, Patroclus.”

Patroclus smiles wider a moment before he schools it, and nods. For a moment he considers walking with Achilles to the changing rooms, waiting as he takes a shower and changes into clean clothes, walking with him to the parking lot where he most likely has a ridiculously expensive car in a reserved space, watching him pull away -

Maybe another time.

Maybe tomorrow.

“You too, Achilles,” he says, and turns to head towards the parking lot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I got paired with Achilles for gym,” he says instead. “I hope I survive gym.”_
> 
> _Briseis blinks. Her eyes widen. All at once, she laughs loud enough that most of the class turns to look and she claps her hand across her mouth. A breath settles her again to mischievous mildness as she ignores the looks and leans closer to Patroclus._
> 
> _“You’re kidding.”_

_Patroclus -_

_I hope you find this before it gets buried beneath all your books. I have to make an early study session for Classics this morning, although I tried to get them to postpone it so that I could meet you. No go. Anyway, I’ve drawn you a map of the school so you can find your classes (or close to them, I didn’t draw individual classrooms because I ran out of room - I’ll try again later)._

_I also brought a bottle of water for you, since you brought me one yesterday, but realized after that that it wouldn’t very well fit through your locker slots like a note or a map. It’s in mine instead if you’d like it. The combination is 1-2-5-0._

_\- Achilles_

\---

Patroclus laughs quietly, turning the note over to see the map drawn on the back of it, surprisingly intricate and detailed, little arrows pointing out the locations of the main rooms, little labels on top of the main buildings. It will help, he knows, for the periods that Achilles cannot tail him and show him where certain places are. Maybe he’ll ask him when they share a free period, if they share one, to just walk through the school and see it.

He wonders if he will be able to talk around his own tongue when asking or if he will awkwardly drool on himself and make sounds.

Either are likely options, depending on the day.

He takes his math book and makes his way to class, following the directions, and finds himself there early, moving to take a seat in the back. He folds the note and schedule back into his diary and takes out his books, smiling despite himself as he watches the rest of the class filter in. Then he turns to the window, watching the hockey team run drills on the grass.

“You survived.”

Patroclus jumps, turns with wide eyes to look at the person who had spoken.

“Almost ended that streak,” Briseis grins, gesturing to the empty seat next to Patroclus. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Can I sit?”

“Of course,” he says. “Yeah.”

He sits up straighter, nervous perhaps, or just trying to compensate for her height compared to his. She lets her bag drop heavy to the floor and fishes a notebook out of it, watching Patroclus sidelong as she finds a fresh page.

“So how was it?” she asks. “You don’t look too worse for wear.”

“Fine,” Patroclus shrugs. “Good.”

“For a first day?”

“For any day,” he admits. “And strange.”

Grinning, Briseis pushes her curls back from her face and leans over her arms. “Do tell.”

Patroclus laughs, just a breathy thing, and shakes his head. “For one thing, everyone is too friendly.”

“Too friendly?”

“I’m used to schools being more…” Patroclus pauses, holds his breath and tries to find a word. _Heartless? Indifferent? Terrifying?_ “Difficult.”

“Over-friendliness can be creepy,” she agrees, nodding sagely before sending Patroclus a mischievous grin. “Should I punch you in the arm? Tip your books to the floor before we can be friends?”

“Please don’t,” Patroclus laughs again and turns to the window. No one is training on the track at the moment. He thinks of the evening before and swallows. “Not you. You have been appropriately distant as a new acquaintance.”

She snorts and keeps watching him, the air cleared between them on that front, at least. Patroclus isn’t sure how to approach Achilles, or if he should at all. It feels almost like a violation to something they share together. He feels his heart beat a little quicker at the thought. He shakes his head.

“Gym’s always weird, I guess. Nothing new.”

“Bleak,” she agrees. “Especially here, if you’re _only_ in gym. As if there’s nothing worth doing that doesn’t involve pseudo-combat or preening machismo. The whole school’s obsessed with it.”

“Not you, though.”

“Couldn’t care less. I mean, I hear about it,” Briseis shrugs. “We all hear about it. It’s what gets our names on banners that we can use to taunt Troy.”

“They’re not unpleasant,” Patroclus ventures. “The jocks, I mean.”

“Our paths don’t really cross. I think they get enough praise from the rest of the school to worry too much about what a Trojan transfer student cares.”

Patroclus’ brows rise a little and he smiles down at Briseis, where she’s curled her arms on the desk and rests her head atop them.

“Good thing you don’t care.”

“Very,” she agrees with a grin. “I have better things to do than spend my free periods watching boys train. They’re lovely to look at, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no difference between Paris or Hector or Achilles if you ask me. Athletics stars with a huge fan following.”

Patroclus swallows and nods, turning to his notebook and flipping it open, for want of something to do with his hands. He wants to venture, wants to ask, how are they, Hector and Paris, as people, how are they outside of their path of fame and attention? Are they as kind as Achilles, as curious and giving?

“I got paired with Achilles for gym,” he says instead. “I hope I survive gym.”

Briseis blinks. Her eyes widen. All at once, she laughs loud enough that most of the class turns to look and she claps her hand across her mouth. A breath settles her again to mischievous mildness as she ignores the looks and leans closer to Patroclus.

“You’re kidding.”

Mouth parted but words muted, Patroclus shakes his head.

“How did that happen? I mean, no offense,” she says quickly. “I’ve got no doubt you and I are going to wreck every curve in every class we’re in, and you’re - you know. Fit. But, _him_?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Patroclus asks, wary.

“Nothing, and that’s entirely what’s wrong,” she says. “He’s the golden boy. Our school’s last, best hope against theirs. Beyond reproach, that one.”

The sarcasm lays heavy on the words but even in them there is more indifference than genuine distaste. Patroclus knows the flavor of it, it’s familiar. He had the same approach to the jocks at his old school, before -

He shrugs.

“He seems nice so far,” he says instead. “And everyone has something wrong with them, something imperfect.”

“Not this one. Maybe having his mother on the PTA helps, and the school is obsessed with athletics.”

“Maybe he’s bad at math,” Patroclus offers, smiling when Briseis smiles back and takes the hint to sit up and open her textbook.

“There’s worse fates than getting paired up with him, I suppose,” she decides, as the teacher begins their lesson.

\---

_Patroclus -_

_My legs actually almost ache today and it’s your fault. Entirely your fault. You’re too interesting. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of questions to ask (that’s a terrible pun)_

_My dad wasn’t thrilled that I missed my music lesson last night, but I told him I was training and he eased off. Not sure I’ve ever stuck around so long that I was still out there when the lights came on. I’m glad you made it home okay after dark. I saw you on your scooter when you left. I really like it._

_I really like ~~y~~ training with you._

_Sorry for all the notes. I keep remembering things I want to say after I put them through._

_\- Achilles_

__

\---

Patroclus -

I meant to tell you to have a good day. I hope you do.

\- Achilles (again)

\---

A week in and Patroclus knows his way around the school well enough to not need the map Achilles drew for him. He carries it with him regardless, just as he carries all the notes Achilles leaves him. They find their way into the back pocket of his diary.

He wonders if Achilles remembers his promise to help Patroclus study, and whether or not he can actually help. He doubts the boy is anything but clever, but perhaps not as clever as he is talented at sports. He finds himself almost buzzing with the thought of an after-school study session after Achilles’ training. He doesn’t tell Briseis. He doesn’t tell anyone.

The day drags on, and he sees both of his friends between classes, mingled with the crowd and pushed away by the tides of it. It’s strange, knowing he has someone to wave to in the hallway, knowing he has something to look forward to in his locker every morning, or after Achilles’ free period. He tried writing a note back, once, but it hardly sounded eloquent. He’d never sent it.

By the time the final bell rings, Patroclus’ bag is already packed, and he’s the first out the door. He forces his stride to slow only as he approaches the locker room, lingering as if lost as a band of football players exit. Once he’s sure they’re gone, he goes in, and through, and out to the big empty spaces, green fields spreading wide. Several pitches and a baseball diamond, and there, in the distance, the track.

Skin flashing bright as bronze, contrasted by a sleek sleeveless shirt and scarlet shorts, Achilles takes the lap at a belt. Curls peeled back from his face, the wind whips at him as powerful legs pound around the track. It’s no wonder, watching him at full-bore, that the other school fears him. No wonder the respect he’s achieved through his prowess. Unfathomably fast, striking in his endurance and power.

And when he stops, he stops only for Patroclus.

“Congratulations,” Achilles calls to him, waving as he finds his breath again.

Patroclus seeks his own in turn, a squirming in his stomach, and holds his botany text tighter against it. “For what?”

“Your first week,” he grins.

“On surviving it?” Patroclus asks, meets Achilles’ grin with a wider smile.

“On thriving in it. Not once a lost book or a missed class. And not once a missed practice,” he adds, resting his hands against his knees and looking at Patroclus through his curly fringe of golden hair. “This warrants a celebration.”

“A day without practice for you, perhaps?” Patroclus asks, hugging his book closer as Achilles straightens up and steps closer, invading Patroclus’ personal space in the most warm and strangely welcome way possible. “There must be days where you don’t run.”

“Weekends,” he says. “Holidays.”

“You’ll injure yourself.”

Achilles snorts a laugh, brash and bright. He steps nearer once more, only inches between them, and gently tries to pry Patroclus’ book from his grip. “That sounds like an official diagnosis.”

“Prognosis,” Patroclus corrects him, smiling. “Unofficial.”

“No, very official.” Achilles blinks at him, head ducked, seeking Patroclus’ dark eyes that glance across his and away again. “You’re my training partner for a reason, it would be neglectful if I didn’t heed your advice.”

Patroclus just swallows, blush pink beneath his eyes as he skims them over Achilles’ again.

“You’ve already run,” he confirms, smiling when Achilles nods slowly, breath still a little short as it pulses against Patroclus’ hair. “So you’re done for the week with it. We will resume on Monday.”

“With the questions or the training?”

“The questions are earned through training,” Patroclus reminds him. He licks his lips and holds his book up, almost hiding behind it until only his dark eyes are visible above the cover, narrowed in an unmistakable smile. “You promised to help me, once I had caught up enough to get lost again.”

Achilles’ fingers tighten against the cover. He holds his bottom lip between his teeth in a wide grin and finally he snatches the textbook free from Patroclus’ grasp. Triumphant, he holds it out before him as if it were a trophy won.

“A different sort of training then. Botanical training,” Achilles says, looking at the cover and narrowly twisting it away as Patroclus reaches to take it back, laughing.

“Biology of plants,” Patroclus corrects him.

“You’re already doing well.”

Another lunge sends Achilles spinning to avoid it, but Patroclus - speedy in his own right - changes directions to make another quick grab. Achilles holds the book firm enough to pull Patroclus closer, too close, perfectly close, his lips nearly touching Patroclus’ brow and Patroclus’ fingers pressed to Achilles’ stomach by the book.

So close.

Too close.

_Breathe_.

Patroclus victoriously slips the book from Achilles’ fingers and steps back, flushed and delighted all at once, stomach singing with butterflies. He wishes he had had the courage to stay there longer. He should have, maybe, he can feel the regret seep through him already, forming a ball in his throat.

“Bleachers?” he suggests instead, turning before he can give away the longing in his look.

“Wait for me there,” Achilles says, taking a step back, and then another. Patroclus turns to him, his alarm transparent, he knows, but he can’t help it. If Achilles didn’t mean well, if this was some long-con prank, this is how it would start. This would be the reveal.

And more than that, much more - he doesn’t want him to go.

Achilles’ expression softens in his mirth, gentling as he breathes a laugh, not out of scorn or disdain or even pity. “Please wait for me,” he asks again. “I’m just going to change so I don’t freeze when we stay out here all night.”

“All night -”

“We are going to,” he says, his words a question to which he already knows the answer. Patroclus can’t do anything more than nod, then smile again, then turn to the bleachers and drag his things along to sit. Achilles watches him, and only when Patroclus sits does he turn to go, his own self assured.

He’s gone for less time than it takes Patroclus to fret, which honestly is saying something. Racing back barefoot and wet-haired, in jeans and a black hoodie, Achilles leaps down a small incline and lands in a crouch, launching forward with bag in one hand and his letter jacket in the other. He’s beautiful. Boundless. Full of not just youthful energy but the energy of youth itself, incarnate enthusiasm for anything and everything around him.

He all but stops Patroclus’ breath as Achilles himself slows to a stop in front of him.

“Did you miss me?” Achilles laughs. He drops his bag with a thump and offers Patroclus a hand. “These things are awful to sit on. I brought my jacket for us to make it better. Since we’re going to be here for a while.”

Patroclus laughs, stands as Achilles lays his jacket down and plonks down atop it, patting the place beside him. Patroclus sits as well, folding one leg beneath himself and setting a hand between them to lean on. Achilles regards him with bright eyes and a big smile.

"What will you teach me?"

"Teach you?"

"You learn as you teach," Achilles reasons. "And if you teach me, I will learn as well."

"Misery loves company," Patroclus says, and Achilles laughs, bending to reach for the book in Patroclus' bag.

"Is botany so bad?"

"Biology," Patroclus laughs. It is easy. Too easy to laugh, to relax, to lean closer as Achilles opens the book and Patroclus points out the chapter they worked on.

Achilles lifts his chin and straightens his spine, spreads his shoulders and sets his hands to the page. He steals a sidelong look, watching Patroclus watching him, and smiles. And so they begin, with Achilles sifting through sentences for bolded and highlighted words, turning them into questions. He pushes for more than simple answers, and Patroclus is glad for the challenge of it.

And an extra challenge is found when their knees come to rest together, sitting so close on Achilles’ coat, and Patroclus can hardly remember his own name let alone leaf formations. The only word that comes to mind is _Achilles, Achilles_ again and again, how it sounds like the wind in the trees and the rush of waves against shore. How warm their skin is together where it meets, even through their jeans, how electric every microcosm of movement is as it sparks fireworks from every point of contact.

Achilles’ hand slips across the page to cover it, and he squints, grinning. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Patroclus manages, lifting his eyes and finding his gaze can go no further than the full spread of Achilles’ lips, the ivory shine of his teeth and the rosy heat beneath umber brown cheeks.

“You were peeking,” Achilles accuses him, pleased.

Patroclus laughs. “I wasn’t.” He raises his eyes to Achilles’, already too warm, too comfortable, too giddy, and opens his mouth to defend himself further, when he feels a heavy cold drop land on his hand. He ducks his head to look and immediately following one, comes another, and another, until rain pelts cool and hard against them both.

Achilles moves first, closing the book and pushing it under his arm before grabbing his bag. Patroclus moves only because he knows he must, and because suddenly everything is ridiculously funny; the fact that Achilles’ hair is dampening into rivulets of gold over his forehead, the fact that they are scrambling to gather all their things to get out of the rain even when they are already drenched by it, the fact that Achilles is draping his coat over Patroclus’ biology book like it’s the most precious thing in the world…

“Under the bleachers!” Achilles calls, and takes the steps in quick practiced strides as Patroclus follows. It’s a bright flash summer shower, unexpected and very welcome to the thirsty grass in the fields and around the school. By the time they make it under the bleachers, thunder rolls across the sky and Patroclus does laugh, giddy and trembling, hands against his face.

Achilles covers Patroclus’ book enough to get it safely into his bag, then stands again. Soaked, already, squinting through curls pulled long with rain and the downpour that only half catches them now beneath the seats, Achilles stands and grins, shaking his head. Water droplets fly and Patroclus sputters, still laughing as Achilles unfurls his letter jacket.

“Come here,” he says, and Patroclus pushes his hair from his face, blinking through the rain. “Come _here_ ,” Achilles insists again, but he’s the one who moves first. He holds his jacket over Patroclus’ head and his both, like a shield. It’s a cool rain, a relief from the heat, but suddenly Patroclus is too warm entirely, pressed side to side with Achilles, beneath his outstretched arm.

Achilles peers out from the little roof of the coat that keeps them dry. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Patroclus says, though he knows it’s a lie. How can he be fine when his heart won’t beat with regularity, how can he be fine when Achilles looks at him that way and he can hardly breathe? “It’s just rain.”

“It’ll only last for a few minutes,” he says, but Achilles isn’t watching the rain anymore. He’s watching Patroclus wipe water away from copper-bright cheeks, he’s watching the way Patroclus knows his mouth opens with no words big enough to fill the space between them. Achilles watches until his eyes close. And his lips close. And the distance between them both closes.

Only a few minutes.

Achilles’ lips are soft, warmer than Patroclus’, and Patroclus whimpers, his own eyes closing as his lips part in surprise and welcome the push as Achilles leans closer. They are quick breaths against heavy rain, soaked through but neither cold. Patroclus sets a hand to Achilles’ chest and feels his heart hammer through the clinging cotton, feels the heat of his skin that he suddenly wants to touch everywhere, with every part of his own.

They break with a sigh and Patroclus laughs again, starts to say something and feels himself pulled into another kiss, going not only willingly but with relish as he curls his fingers in Achilles’ shirt and holds him near. The coat falls with a _flumpf_ to the ground as Achilles drops his shield and grasps his Patroclus instead. Firm hands spread along Patroclus’ belly, around his back to bring their unsteady bodies together. Achilles is clumsy this way, like Patroclus never imagined he might be, overwhelmed into a laugh that breaks their kiss for a moment as the rain trickles down from the seats above.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispers, before their kiss tangles again.

He is always better with words than Patroclus.

And he is eager lips, spreading only to press closed again, he is heated breath spilling against Patroclus’ cheek. He is one hand in Patroclus’ hair seeking through curls tangled wet and he is another hand at the small of his back, keeping their hearts as close together as they can. With a grin, Achilles turns them both, and drops to sit where his coat has fallen, tugging Patroclus down atop him.

Patroclus makes a sound, a little cry of surprise that morphs to something softer when he’s kissed again. This is ridiculous, and silly, and cinematic and hilarious because of it. Around them the rain keeps pounding the earth, the bleachers, them beneath it. Another peal of thunder and it is Achilles who laughs this time, and Patroclus who swallows the sound. 

It has been a week, of sweet notes and sweeter words, of catching furtive glances down the hallway and waiting for the end of the day to play the question game during training. It has felt like forever, as though they are two souls long separated and only now brought back together again. Patroclus thinks how Achilles has known that, since day one, how somehow he opened himself immediately to the idea, and Patroclus just needed some time to let his heart settle.

He is happy where it has settled. He does not want to move it again.

“This is crazy,” he whispers, and Achilles laughs again, tugging Patroclus’ hair and laying back, uncaring, on the sodden earth to have the other boy atop him. “We’ll catch our death.”

“It’s summer.”

“Viruses don’t care what time of year it is -”

“Do you want to stop?”

“Don’t you dare,” Patroclus sighs. “Please don’t stop.”

“Never,” Achilles promises, sealing their lips together again, again, each time an oath in itself. It is a silly thing, ridiculous, a promise of youth with nothing more to back it than Achilles’ own certainty in how his heart moves. But it does move, quickly, beneath Patroclus’ fingers as he spreads them to ease it, and they bend into another kiss.

Slower now, as the rain eases to steadiness, Achilles frames Patroclus’ face with his fingers and learns him, inch by inch. The upper lip first, brushed with a kiss, the bottom lip held between his own. Each corner where deep dimples form when Patroclus lets himself truly smile, and the freckles beneath his eyes. They share summer in their skin, flowers blossoming beneath their cheeks and golden heat in their hands.

A wheel-clatter of thunder nearly masks the small sound Achilles makes as he meets Patroclus’ mouth again. Cool rain forms rivers down Achilles’ cheeks where Patroclus’ hair drips to join them, around their faces a gossamer curtain of water that leaves no one in the world but they.

“Every day,” Achilles whispers, laughing. “Every day, just like this. It could be like this always, Patroclus.”

“Okay,” Patroclus grins, ducking his head to feel Achilles’ fingers card through his hair. What else can he say? This is heaven and heat and light and everything good all at once. Finding things when you don’t even go looking.

“We should get out of the rain,” Patroclus laughs, shifting up and pulling Achilles with him.

“And into the gym,” Achilles agrees, grinning, eyes narrowed in mischief. “And into the shower -”

“No.”

“No?”

“The gym is closed,” Patroclus laughs.

“Why would they?” Achilles exclaims, a great grievance with the world laid upon his shoulders, that it would prevent his idea coming to fruition.

“Because it’s late,” Patroclus tells him. “There’s no one else out here but us.”

“That’s more than enough reason to keep it open.”

“Everyone’s gone home, Achilles.” Patroclus’ grin is sought over by roving amber eyes, challenged by a crooked smile. Achilles loops his hand against the back of Patroclus’ neck and sweeps away his smile with a kiss, lingering like sugar even after their lips part again.

“Are you going home? It’s bound to stop raining soon, we can stay -”

“And freeze?” Patroclus finishes for him. They are drenched, and while pressing close they are warm as though the sun still beats upon them, were they to stand, to leave their little place here beneath the bleachers, they would immediately feel the effect of the summer storm. “We should go home.”

“To yours or mine?”

“To each our own,” Patroclus laughs, sitting up and allowing Achilles to hold him close as he sits to follow. “To each our own.”

“That’s an awful idea,” Achilles says. “You should know that, since you’re so clever.”

“More awful than catching cold?”

“Much,” comes the easy answer as Achilles settles to his knees, tilting in until their foreheads bump. “The worst idea I’ve ever heard. If we go to each our own, how can I do this?” he asks, stroking his thumb against Patroclus’ freckles. “And this?” he says, slicking a black curl behind Patroclus’ ear. “And this,” he whispers, touching a kiss to the corner of Patroclus’ smile.

Patroclus shivers, squirms against his friend. He wants this. And this. And this. He wants to shift and press against him, he wants to kiss him until their lips go numb. He wants everything.

And it is Friday evening. There is an entire weekend until they have to return to school, and have responsibilities and work… and an entire weekend to enjoy this. Each other. Together.

“We could just -”

“No.”

“But it wouldn’t be -”

“No.”

Patroclus laughs, eyes closed and entire being giving in, inch by inch, to the boy before him. Patroclus sighs, quick and harsh, and swallows as Achilles runs a hand over his face.

“My dad isn’t home a lot,” he whispers. “You can come and stay, and -”

“Yes,” grins Achilles, and there is victory in his kiss. He pushes to stand, dragging Patroclus upward by his skinny arms and promise of another kiss and another. They lean together, dripped on still by the storm’s remnants, until finally Achilles tears himself away to take up his muddy jacket and his bag, and Patroclus’ bag in turn. They both go over his shoulders, and watching him, Patroclus doesn’t have to wonder why Achilles is a boy who has been denied nothing that he desired.

Patroclus knows only that he, too, has been swept into this force of nature, and would give him everything.

They don’t share words on the way to the parking lot; there aren’t any words they need to share. Just sudden ripples of laughter, spreading from one to the other, snared fingers and stolen kisses under the incandescent lights spilling gold into the lingering mist. Achilles holds both bags as he regards the scooter, and his eyes narrow in what can only be an especially, unavoidably torrid thought as Patroclus straddles the seat.

“Don’t give me that look,” Patroclus chides him.

“I can’t help it.”

“I’ll make you walk.”

“I would run,” Achilles says. “I will, if you insist on it. I bet I could catch up with you, too.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Patroclus laughs. “I’ll start training you with this. Get on.”

Achilles laughs and does, careful to arrange all the bags and his jacket so nothing will unbalance them. Patroclus checks the key, the mirrors, and catches Achilles’ eyes in the smaller one, grinning when he does.

“Sit closer,” he coaxes. “And hold on.”

Achilles doesn’t have to be told more than once. Strong legs spread against Patroclus’ thighs and squeeze, as he spreads his hands across Patroclus’ soft stomach and wraps his arms firmly. He nuzzles between Patroclus’ shoulders and kisses him there, too.

Patroclus doesn’t tell him that he takes the long way home, just to feel Achilles pressed against him for a few minutes more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Any moment of doubt - and truly, it was only a moment - that possessed Achilles is gone. It doesn’t matter that they’ve only just met, it doesn’t matter that he’s never felt this pull towards anyone else before, let alone acted on it. What matters is a deeper and intangible thing, a swelling warmth like a new sun born inside Achilles’ chest, as if they’re gods at the dawning of the world, their joy so bright they can see nothing else but the other._
> 
> _What else could possibly matter more than that?_

“You have to let go.”

“I don’t.”

“You _do_ ,” Patroclus insists, nearly falling - and dragging the scooter down on top of them both - as he tries to dismount anyway. Achilles keeps an arm around his waist and Patroclus stands beside him, squinting over his shoulder. “It’s going to be hard to shower in the garage.”

Achilles relents, then, but only to snare Patroclus’ hand instead. With both bags still on his shoulders, he slings his leg over the scooter and twines their fingers together. “You’re sure it’s okay?”

It’s a silly question, in Achilles’ mind, but it feels necessary. Patroclus isn’t as certain as he is, he has a _nervous temperament_ and it pleases Achilles a little to think of it that way. It gives him another reason to stick close to him, to ease his birdlike wariness away.

“He’s never home.”

“Mine’s always home,” Achilles responds, following Patroclus into the house. “I should call him.” And his mother. Definitely her. The last thing any of them need is Achilles’ mother coming to find him - “Where does he go? Your dad. Is he working? What does he do?”

“Business,” Patroclus shrugs. He truly doesn’t know. He stopped caring a long time ago. No matter how many times he had asked his father to stay, to take Patroclus with him, he had never listened. Business always took priority. So Patroclus had stopped bothering to infringe on his time.

Within, the house is dark, and Patroclus seeks with a practiced hand for the light switch for the corridor.

“Upstairs,” he whispers, though he hardly has to. “To my room where we can drop the bags. Then to the shower. You can take the one near my room and I can -”

“Take it with me.”

“There’s another shower in the downstairs bathroom,” Patroclus mumbles, but he knows it’s a losing battle when Achilles grins at him. They will share the shower. Patroclus feels his entire body burn with the thought. “I’ll need to grab you a towel. And something to change into. I don’t have anything that’s… it’s all a little baggy for you I think. You’re too thin.”

“I don’t have to wear a-”

“Please,” Patroclus begs, he laughs, he’s helpless and he splays a hand across his face and it does nothing to ease how hot his blush burns. “I’ll find a - a shirt for you. Shorts. While your clothes dry out.”

“If you insist,” Achilles grins, motioning for Patroclus to lead the way. He doesn’t ask again about his dad, sensitive enough to the brusque shift in tone the questions caused. For that matter, he doesn’t want to talk about his family right now either. Or much at all. And certainly not when he can secretly watch the way Patroclus’ legs work as he ascends the stairs.

Any moment of doubt - and truly, it was only a moment - that possessed Achilles is gone. It doesn’t matter that they’ve only just met, it doesn’t matter that he’s never felt this pull towards anyone else before, let alone acted on it. What matters is a deeper and intangible thing, a swelling warmth like a new sun born inside Achilles’ chest, as if they’re gods at the dawning of the world, their joy so bright they can see nothing else but the other.

What else could possibly matter more than that?

Achilles drops their bags to the carpet as Patroclus snaps on the light.

“Did you clean it for me?”

Patroclus turns to regard Achilles with the look that Achilles has already come to love, a confusion and surprise that edges towards delight in its intensity. Achilles grins.

“Did I -”

“It’s so _tidy_ ,” Achilles tells him. He stretches his arms wide as he steps in, occupying space, occupying _Patroclus’_ space, which is really the more important thing. Patroclus’ bed is small but neatly made, not a wrinkle on the white blanket laid across it, nor any excess papers wadded up and tossed about his desk beside the window. Even his books are orderly, covers flush in a row.

“It’s - should it not be?” Patroclus laughs, peeling his sopping sweater off himself and wadding it up. They will need a change of clothes, they will need towels… they will need to find a way to curl up on the little bed in Patroclus’ room because there is no way he is sending Achilles to sleep on the couch and no way that Patroclus himself will go. Not when nobody's home but they.

“No,” Achilles grins. “I mean. It can be. It should be whatever it is for you, it’s your room. I like it.”

Patroclus shakes his head and shrugs and kicks off his shoes to peel off wet socks and throw them in the hamper. He can set the washing going for them both, by the morning their clothes will be dry and warm and no one will be the wiser as to why they were in there in the first place.

“I like it a lot,” he admits. “I spend too much time in here. Less, now that I help you train.”

His hands linger at his untucked shirt, pried free by Achilles’ grasping hands as they lay in the grass. He hesitates, and Achilles feigns an ambivalent turn, he feigns not paying attention, he feigns like he doesn’t want to see Patroclus that way more than anything he’s ever wanted to see _ever_. With his back to Patroclus, he unzips his hoodie, holding it over his arm as he prises off his shirt next. Shoes kicked free and socks tugged loose, he tells himself not to look. Not even to peek.

There’s a challenge indeed.

“I’m glad,” Achilles says. “That you get to keep your room how you like it. And that you help me train. I think I’m getting faster already.”

“Liar,” snorts Patroclus, taming down his smile as he looks away from the smooth planes of Achilles’ bronze back and turns his back to the other boy as well. He tugs his shirt off and holds it against his stomach, fumbling with his pants.

“I already saw you in your shorts,” Achilles reminds him, gently, though still - always - amused. “In the locker room, on the first day. But I won’t look if you don’t want me to. Not even in the shower. I’m just worried -”

“Worried?” Patroclus asks, looking back to him.

“That you’re going to catch yourself in your zipper from fumbling with it so much.”

Patroclus snorts and turns to look properly. In truth, they have seen each other near-bared, it is impossible to avoid in the locker room, and there is little to be scared of beyond their own fumbling worry. Achilles is confident and beautiful, and Patroclus, to his own eyes, is anything but.

“I’ll start the shower,” he mumbles, and shoves his shoulder against Achilles’ as he passes him, squirming free when Achilles tries to grab his arm. “Wait. You’ll hear it going.”

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“You’ll freeze,” Patroclus laughs, and goes down the short hall towards the bathroom. The shower is wide, a huge glass thing with a showerhead that can be adjusted to rain onto the person from directly above or at an angle. Patroclus adjusts it to fall from above, checks the towels, checks the shampoo and soap and finally turns the water on.

He hears the door open and doesn’t turn yet. Instead, deliberately, he bends to slip his briefs down his thighs and kicks them away.

Achilles, who never loses stride and never loses his breath, for the first time feels the ground unsteady beneath his feet. A little sound leaves him, what’s left in his lungs, gone, stolen, relinquished willingly to the clever Patroclus. Not only clever - beautiful. Skinny limbs with their own secret strength curving lean muscle beneath russet skin, smooth but for the dark curls of hair on his legs and higher, between them, a glimpse but not enough. Achilles steps closer, bare feet clicking against the floor, and makes no show of peeling clumsily out of his wet shorts to let them slap to the floor.

When Patroclus turns, Achilles is there, hands in his hair and tongue parting his lips. He takes a step closer, another, until Patroclus’ back meets the cool tile wall and their bellies press together as tightly as their kiss. True to his word, at least for now, Achilles doesn’t look lower.

He doesn’t have to.

He already wants Patroclus beyond measure.

Patroclus laughs, shivering against the warm hands that hold him as steam fills the bathroom. It feels amazing, pressed this close to the other boy, feeling his skin, his taut muscles beneath it. He is sinew and sun, beautiful and godlike. And for some reason, by some dumb luck, he wants Patroclus.

He fumbles behind himself and starts a slow slip towards the open shower door, laughing as Achilles follows, gasping softly at the heat of the water against their cool skin. Another fumble for the door to close and then they are sealed in their warm and steamy place, together and close and warming from their cold ride after the rain.

“I kept staring,” Patroclus murmurs. “The first day, when you were running, I couldn’t look away. You are extraordinary.”

“Because of you,” Achilles tells him, kissing the corner of Patroclus’ mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his throat. Patroclus makes a wonderful sound at that, whimpering and high, and so Achilles does it again.

“I wasn’t training you then -”

“No,” agrees Achilles, nuzzling into another kiss that catches hot skin between his lips. “But I’m better now than I was. You make me better.”

Patroclus just wraps his arms around him, rubbing warmth into frigid skin beneath the hot water that pounds against them. They explore carefully, seeking fingers and gentle touches, pressing against muscle that sends one boy squirming with laughter, another softly panting in pleasure. 

Slowly, they start to actually wash, mild-smelling soap over toned stomach and to the vee of their hips. Neither seek lower, though both fumble, both want to. Patroclus looks first, ignores the blush that warms beneath his eyes in favor of seeing Achilles entirely. He is a little bigger than Patroclus, but hardly intimidating. Not in that way. It’s a wonderful rush to be able to look, to know that he is allowed to.

Achilles bites his lip, leaning close to brush the tips of their noses together. He feels Patroclus pressed against his hip, can imagine the size and shape of him. Both are hard now, slick with soap and water. Both turn their hips together, seeking out the sweet spot where the pressure is best between them, and finding within those hollows a steady rhythm.

“Can I?” they ask, at once, both breathless and both laughing. Achilles nods first, and leaning against Patroclus seeks his pulse again to trace with lingering kisses as Patroclus reaches between them. His fingers flutter over velvety skin, spreading a shiver through Achilles as he traces the rigid lines of his cock, touching fingertip to tip.

Achilles laughs, and kisses Patroclus harder for it, secreting little shadows beneath his jaw, marks that only they will know are there.

“Did you want to,” asks Patroclus. Achilles grins.

“I was only going to ask to look.”

Patroclus curses and removes his hand as though it’s been scalded, and finds only a laugh as his answer, before Achilles seeks his hand and sets it where it had been before, careful to only brush his own fingers against delicate hot skin.

Exploration here too, Achilles just as nervous as Patroclus in this discovery, just as new to it as he. It is strange, Patroclus wonders why he had imagined that Achilles would not be, why he had thought that even in this he would be confident and entirely aware. It is endearing to see him touch gently because he doesn’t know how else to start, it is lovely to feel him nervous, as Patroclus is.

“You can look,” Patroclus breathes, laughing as he spreads his fingers over Achilles’ chest. “And touch, if you like. I’m just… I’ve never -”

“No,” agrees Achilles, eyes bright as their gazes meet. “Neither have I.”

“But you -”

“But I?”

“You’re -”

“Maybe I was waiting for you,” Achilles says, and holding his lip between his teeth, he lets his eyes lower. Down past Patroclus’ hand on his chest, slender fingers spread wide. Down the slope of Patroclus’ stomach, its slight swell, to where his cock stands stiff. It moves, when Achilles looks at it, and he feels his own belly tighten in turn.

His throat clicks as he swallows. “Can I -”

“Yes,” Patroclus tells him, and Achilles takes him in hand. He fans his fingers along the thrumming vein, traces it to the tip where soft skin gathers delicately. Lifting his eyes, Achilles watches as Patroclus’ lips unfurl, and as Achilles slides back the skin gently - so gently - he kisses him to taste his moan.

It feels incredible. His own hand has never brought him so much pleasure, and Patroclus just allows himself to experience this, to let his fingers dig into the soft skin before him, just incrementally lighter than his own. He kisses as he is kissed, he brings his hands down to touch as he is touched, and soon they are both laughing, delighted and pleased, hard and leaking against each other’s fingers.

The steam drips down the mirror with how long they have spent in here and neither care.

“Did you ever think of me?” Patroclus asks suddenly, a bout of confidence he cannot explain, being held this way and touched and wanted.

Achilles’ voice cracks softly as he bows his head against Patroclus’ shoulder, stroking still, rocking his hips beyond his control, into the slick, tight warmth of Patroclus’ hand. “Like - like this?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know which happens first,” Achilles laughs, breathless, dizzy with it. “That I’m - that I touch myself and then think of you, or that I lie in bed thinking of you, and can’t help but.”

He snares an arm around Patroclus’ back as his knees weaken, keeping him upright as their hands move faster, squeeze firmer, their voices rising. Achilles pushes their brows together again. He kisses him, clumsy. His voice trembles with an undercurrent that threatens to pull him beneath.

“Did you?” he asks.

Patroclus bites his lip, grinning, shivering from this, and nods, forehead slick against Achilles’.

“Yeah.”

The admission is soft, but it’s enough, to pull tension through Achilles’ muscles, to pull a sound from between his lips. Patroclus thinks of how he imagined Achilles touching him, whispering soft things as his hand ventured between his legs and stroked him. He thinks of how he had bitten his pillow not to make a sound as he came.

It was only two days ago.

He wonders if he will even manage to stay standing, now that it’s actually happening.

Achilles drops his arm beneath Patroclus backside, lifting him to his toes but trying to keep him upright, the both of them, even as Achilles’ muscles flicker tension. He laughs as they shake together, hearts and hands pumping erratic.

“We should - to the bed,” Patroclus says.

“I can’t, I won’t make it.”

“You will.”

“I won’t,” Achilles breathes. “I’ll -”

His breath hitches, gasps becoming little moans, his body rigid down to the fingers that clasp Patroclus’ cock tight and squeeze as his own spills bursts of thick, white heat between them. He rests his cheek to Patroclus’ shoulder, panting hot against his throat, eyes scarcely open but adoring, adoring beyond reason or measure, the boy pressed so tightly to him.

Patroclus comes immediately after, whimpering little sounds against Achilles as he grips him as well, balancing against each other under the shower spray that grows steadily cooler now that they have wasted most of the hot water. Patroclus moves only enough to clean their hands beneath the spray, clean their stomachs, and then he shuts the water off, leaning against Achilles as they drip to the tile floor.

He laughs, just a brief little noise, and then he can’t stop, delighted and filled with adrenaline and wonder, clinging to the boy he doesn’t ever want to let go.

This is absurd.

They are absurd.

They are amazing.

“We should go to bed, now,” Patroclus whispers. “Before we get cold here too.”

Achilles doesn’t argue. Why should he, when everything is so right in the world? When they can lay together just like this, no clothes to keep them from each other, no fear or misgiving to chill the warmth that burns incandescent between them.

He takes Patroclus’ hand in his and tugs him from the shower. They take turns toweling themselves, each other, one to share between them and curious gazes seeking still in disbelief over those swaths of skin that the towel doesn’t cover. Achilles grins as Patroclus lays the towel over his head and dries his golden curls, shaking them free again when he slides it away. He returns the gesture, Patroclus’ own hair oil-black in its wetness, and each time the towel reveals Patroclus’ face he kisses him.

On the lips.

On his nose.

On his cheek.

His brow.

This and this and this.

They make it to bed without incident, the door locked behind them when they had come home, the light downstairs on usually in case Patroclus’ dad came home at a late hour. Patroclus leaves the lamp on on his work table and crawls into bed first, careful to take up as little space as possible so Achilles has room.

He does.

Too much. Arms sling around Patroclus’ middle and pull him close, so their foreheads are touching again, so their noses are, smiling warm and breathing together.

“What do you usually do on the weekends?” Patroclus asks him.

Achilles’ brow knits in thought, and as he considers the question, he gently rubs his nose alongside Patroclus’ own. Nuzzling softly, arms - and a leg now added to the mix - wrapped around the smaller boy, their bodies fit together, as if carved from the same substance.

“Eat,” he says, grinning when Patroclus snorts, laughing. “It’s true. I eat a lot and I sleep. I practice guitar. I study.”

“In that order?”

“Pretty much,” Achilles agrees. “I’ll go for a run - training -”

“On the weekend?”

“I enjoy it,” he says. “It’s easy for me.”

The words aren’t a brag, no product of burgeoning youthful machismo. They’re factual, almost a little puzzled in that - as if Achilles couldn’t imagine anyone finding it anything other than a simple thing to do, to be the fastest boy in their school. For one who seems so flighty, Patroclus envies Achilles’ focus, singularly honed on improving himself.

Patroclus’ thoughts are quieted beneath the hum of his pulse as Achilles kisses him, little fluttering things.

“Maybe not this weekend, though,” Achilles adds, laughing as he gently juts their hips together. “There’s other things I want to do now. What do you do? In your tidy room.”

“I study,” Patroclus says. “Read. Eat. Sleep.”

“In that order?”

“Often, yeah,” Patroclus laughs. He hums quietly and lifts his eyes to Achilles again. “Not this weekend, though.”

“What are we going to do this weekend?”

Patroclus thinks for a moment, allows his mind to wander as his fingers do over silken skin in front of him. They could sleep in, cuddle in the morning, kiss some more. If his dad isn’t home - and he won’t be - they could make breakfast or order something in, turn on the television and not watch it when they kiss again, Achilles dressed in a shirt and shorts that Patroclus finds for him…

“What do you want to do?” he asks instead, nose wrinkling as he grins.

Achilles thinks about the question, as he does all the important questions that Patroclus asks him. And they’re all important, really, everything he does is important to Achilles. The way his palm rests over Achilles’ heart, the way his breath puffs softly against his cheek. The way the light shines across his hair and brightens his eyes. Everything.

“Everything,” Achilles says, and he kisses Patroclus as soon as his smile widens more. “This,” he says. He tangles a hand in Patroclus’ curls and grins. “This.” A laugh escapes between them both as their skinny limbs tighten around the other and press every inch of skin they can together. Their gazes meet, and Achilles skims his fingertips down Patroclus’ cheek.

“And this,” he whispers, before they kiss again.


End file.
